


blown and tossed by the wind

by kyrilu



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 15:26:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19087810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrilu/pseuds/kyrilu
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have a conversation over wine, while lounging on the balcony of Crowley's flat.





	blown and tossed by the wind

**Author's Note:**

> apparently - apparently i really do want to write more fic of these two.

“Aziraphale?”

“Mm, yes?”

“I was wondering if things would’ve gone down differently if I’d still been an angel. Maybe it would have been less, hmm, awkward to hang out together and deal with the Apocalypse business.” Crowley was, clearly, drunk, for he didn’t bring up his own Fall very often, not in this manner, and Aziraphale looked at him with quiet surprise.

“I mean,” Crowley went on, “I wouldn’t be _me_ me. No snakey-ness, no billowing black wings--”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “No, you wouldn’t be you. Setting aside ineffability and the plan, sometimes - sometimes things happen for a reason.”

“You mean me meeting you.”

Aziraphale felt a bit embarrassed. It sounded sentimental, almost romantic, worded that way, and he and Crowley weren’t like that (right?). You don’t just tell your friend-of-six-thousand-years, _Our first meeting was something like destiny_.

They were an angel and a demon who met at Eden and kept bumping into each other by accident afterwards, except it stopped being accidents after the first couple millennia.

Crowley seemed to sense Aziraphale’s embarrassment. He didn’t push the subject, just took a sip of wine. “You know, I’ve forgotten how it felt like to be an angel. When I was Upstairs in the beginning, I think I felt like I was very _sure_ , but in hindsight, that was the enthusiasm of youth speaking.”

“Oh, the _knowing_ ,” Aziraphale said, in recognition. “Yes. When you feel empowered by God’s will and God’s word inside of you like a - like a living flame, like a mug of hot cocoa sprinkled with marshmallows. And you believe it: the Mission of sheltering the homeless, clothing the naked, feeding the hungry, uplifting the downtrodden, correcting injustices. Etcetera.”

“It sounds very grand.”

“It’s the Mission,” Aziraphale said. “Humans are capable of potential greatness and cleverness. I see them - the aid workers, the nurses, the environmental engineers, the teachers, the human rights barristers, the non-rubbish priests, the librarians, the - the--”

“Baristas?” Crowley offered.

“Baristas,” Aziraphale agreed, gratefully, because he did enjoy a nice cup of coffee in the morning once in a while.

Of course, it wasn’t just limited to the significant careers or the big gestures. Sometimes it was enough to open the newspaper and see the latest story about a rescued puppy.

“But the problem is,” Crowley said, his tone mild, “ _humans_ , Aziraphale.” He didn’t have his sunglasses on, having shed it sometime after the first bottle, and his eyes were keen reptilian yellow and old, old, the same as Aziraphale saw when he looked in the mirror. “You’re just one angel, and you can’t give away miracles like candy. And what’s one enterprising environmental engineer in the face of climate change? A gaggle of activists and lawyers in the face of the next fascist dictator? Good people, when there’s reality TV and marmite and pumpkin spice lattes and multilevel marketing and Twitter trolls and mobile apps that steal your data?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Dear--”

“I know,” Crowley said with a huff of breath. “Reality TV’s my fault, I know. But privacy-stealing apps and social media platforms isn’t on me. I’ve even sent copies of various terms of services to the soul agreement department because _really_ , that’s another thing they can learn from humans.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale said again.

Crowley’s mouth twisted, and he sighed, ran a hand through his red hair. “Sorry. Sorry. Old habits. I’ve always asked too many questions. I’m not trying to tempt you or anything.”

Aziraphale knew very well that Crowley wasn’t asking these questions to lead him down a path of evil. He was asking because there was a distant part of him that remembered being an angel and he’d sensed it, that looming immortal future of feeling discouraged, disheartened, burnt out. Crowley was asking these questions because he _cared_ \--and, well, that was Crowley for you, a strange sort of demon.

It wasn’t as if Aziraphale didn’t understand. He knew he was no paragon of virtue himself. He was aware he had been slacking off from his duties for ages and he cherished the little pleasures in life, the good food and the good books and the good art. He was more of a tourist than a crusader of justice.

But that was okay.

He was sitting outside underneath the stars with the person he loved most by his side, sharing finely aged wine, having philosophical conversations and trading inside jokes. Saving the world could wait; it always could, as the Earth spun on, as God continued Her unpredictable cosmic game, as there were more books written that he could read and more desserts being invented that he could try.

“It’s all right,” Aziraphale said out loud, in reassurance, for Crowley was staring at him, his expression troubled. He reached out and touched the tattoo on Crowley’s face, tracing the little snake, round and round like an Ouroboros.

They were looking into each other’s eyes, yellow into blue.

“What if I’d Fallen?” Aziraphale murmured softly.

“ _You_?” Crowley said, incredulous. “No, no. Not you, angel. You wouldn’t be you. You’re right. Maybe our first meeting happened like it did for a reason.”

And Crowley’s eyes flickered. Flickered downward to Aziraphale’s mouth, and Aziraphale felt a dizzying, swooping sensation in his chest that had nothing to do with the alcohol. Will he - is he - is this -

“Aziraphale,” said Crowley. He said his name like a cautious prayer. “Aziraphale.” Again.

Aziraphale thought: _I know - I know._  This was another thing inside of him that felt bigger than himself, and wasn’t that a blasphemous thing to admit? This was a thing that burned so bright that hellfire had nothing on it.

“The stars,” Aziraphale said, stalling, dithering, “they look beautiful. You can see them so well from your flat’s balcony, even here in London. I can see why you wanted to run away to them.”

“They wouldn’t have been the same without you.” Crowley gave him a lopsided smile.

Aziraphale thought of Eden in the rain, his wings brushing against Crowley’s as he sheltered him from the storm. There were many things that he was unsure of; there were many things he doubted, but for now he thought, he thought, he thought - _I have never been so sure of anything in my entire life._

He let his eyes drift closed. He kissed Crowley and tasted sour strong wine.


End file.
